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Raven's Call
Snow lightly brushed against the small window in Eltanin Timedes’s room, and though the window was fogged up by his continuous, warm breath hitting it, he still managed to catch a glimpse of a man in a white and brown robe walking off from the castle grounds. Eltanin had glimpsed this man a multitude of times after arriving here almost a week or two ago – Eltanin had lost count – and Eltanin could have sworn he had seen the man before. What made this enigma stand out was the fact that he wore sandals in the middle of winter and seemed to pop up when least expected. Eltanin shook his head, walking away from the window. It was cold in the room despite all the servant’s best attempts to warm it. The fire gave off little heat and Eltanin thought to just let it burn itself out. It was odd to the former sultan, this way of living – there were rarely fires in Al-Kharid, unless it meant to cook something or if someone were to die. Eltanin grimaced at the latter thought – it made him think of Savraell’s grisly death – and he set his focus to one of the logs in the hearth of the fireplace. The fire touching the log was like watching fingers slide across ice; the ice broke, and then hand disappeared within. The flames roared along the log as Eltanin sat back in the cushioned chair, a content smile on his face. The ability – perhaps from this mark on his neck – came easier each time; soon, it would only take a split second to make things burst into flames, as long as it was a relatively small object. The smell of smoke drafted into the room, making Eltanin’s nose itch. He longed for home, where the smells were of spices and other exotic foods, and the only cold came from a dip within the palace’s baths. Even the women in this region were not as beautiful as they were in Al-Kharid. Eltanin winced at that last thought and dug a nail into his palm; lust was what had gotten him into this situation in the first place. “I should have refused all of them,” he growled, eyes following the flames’ dance. His grip tightened on the mahogany chair’s armrest until he thought he might break it. Woodsmoke continued to burn his nose, and he coughed once or twice. His thoughts raced, back to a few months ago when everything was perfectly normal. His father – ''But not my real one, ''Eltanin thought with a bittersweet taste in his mouth – Iskandar Timedes, had been the ruler then. Al-Kharid was a peaceful nation. And it seemed like all that had been taken to the grave as Iskandar died. Sometimes Eltanin wondered if it was just bad luck that Iskandar Timedes had died – some mentioned a ‘thirty-two’ curse, but Eltanin thought it was just utter nonsense – or if someone had assassinated his step-father. It couldn’t be determined now, of course, but the former sultan was free to speculation. The past, though, couldn’t be worried about – not all of it, anyways. Thoughts of Khaliq Jabbar and the ‘Pharoah’ Shai-nefer raced along Eltanin’s mind. No doubt Jabbar was in control of Sophanem and Menaphos by now. That gave him almost complete control of the desert, though with some competition from Hallowrein Asgarnia. Eltanin wondered if the two had managed to defeat each other; his spies had stopped replying soon after he arrived in Varrock, perhaps because Eltanin was too far away or perhaps because they saw Eltanin as so many others saw him – incompetent. For once, Eltanin had to agree with them – he wasn’t meant to be some sort of ruler. Sure, he had been trained to be that sort of person, but it did not flow within his veins as it had with the other Timedes’s. Eltanin was not from their family line – it was only fit to see that the state of peace died because of a false heir. Eltanin sighed again, pushing himself off the chair and walking over to the pitcher of wine that had been left for him. The wine had been chilled when it was brought, and Eltanin thought it still must have been, given the room’s temperature, but the ice had melted. It didn’t matter, though, and as he poured himself a cup, he only saw blood – the blood of his people. Eltanin had nightmares almost every time he went to bed. While some were of robed figures and shadowy monsters – children’s nightmares, of course – most were of that battle when it seemed like a slaughter instead of a battle. Why hadn’t he called the retreat? Eltanin still wondered about that, regretting the moment he had placed a bolt right into the general’s heart. Surely that man would have been more fit to lead than Eltanin. And then there was Shai-nefer. It all came down to her, it seemed – she had been his ally, his partner, his friend. Or so he had thought; she had merely given up in the battle, leaving him to die. He wasn’t sure if Jabbar had killed her or not – Eltanin might have liked it better if she were dead. The pharaoh was nothing more than a coward in Eltanin’s book. If he got his hands on her… He dimly became aware of a tingling sensation on his left hand and he gazed down at it. Wine, overflowing from the silver goblet, tickled his knuckles and he turned the pitcher upright. He grasped one of the napkins to the side and began to clean up. The cloth turned dark red and Eltanin found himself wondering how he would explain the mess. ''Easy. I just tell her not to worry about it. ''Eltanin barked a laugh and closed his eyes, lips curving into a wide arc. He stopped himself short and he wondered if he were mad for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he came to some decision, but he shrugged his shoulders and continued to clean. Word had reached Eltanin that a new man named Fadi Ibhrahim ruled Al-Kharid now. To Eltanin, the irony was like a leaden rod smacking him in the ribs. Perhaps, though, Al-Kharid could become a better place, one like the Timedes family ruled when their blood held the power. Eltanin thought perhaps he should visit the man and offer his apologies, but he reminded himself that it was past-time for such now. Ibhrahim – and several more men – would probably not see Eltanin for what he was before. Probably some idiot in their eyes… the respect would be gone just like the wine from the pitcher. It was funny, though. Not more than a month ago, Eltanin had been hoping for a chance to get out of power, and here he was, if not the route he would have chosen. He had envied the life of an adventurer and had once hoped to become great heroes like Gautier Qir or Botyr Ilkson or Van Roich. Perhaps there was some time for that, but when a lot of people wanted you dead, including a psychopath king… It made adventuring just a little tough. Of course, an adventurer’s life wasn’t expected to be made, either, but having a bounty on your head wasn’t what Eltanin had intended. He took a sip from his wine while he walked over to the other table which held his other possessions. A crossbow sat there, finely tuned and polished for the best operating ability. It was hard to load, but it punctured heavy armor, which was something the arrows of Al-Kharid could not do. Eltanin favored it because it was small and versatile – it had come in handy more than once. Eltanin’s gaze drifted to the small box that sat next to the crossbow. The lid was partially open, and inside two teletabs had been carefully placed in slots. Three were empty and only two were still there – two Eltanin intended to use soon. How the dark mage had known which places Eltanin needed to go to, he didn’t know. Silently, he thanked that dark mage, even though he had killed Euriphides… Thinking about them set him in a melancholy mood. He put the goblet down, staring out the window again. For a few moments, the only sound in the room was his breathing. And then came the soft ''thud ''as boots touched stone. Eltanin watched in the reflection of the window as a man carrying a curved staff appeared almost as if he came from nowhere. Eltanin gritted his teeth – he knew who the man was. This was the dark mage who had killed Euriphides. Eltanin’s left hand darted to the crossbow and he turned to aim. An invisible blow hit his arm and the crossbow was tumbling across the room, the bolt flying into a tapestry on the far side. Eltanin cursed, drawing the dagger from his sleeve, but it began to heat up as soon as it entered his hand. Eyes widening in astonishment, he dropped the blade and blew on his hand for a moment before facing his adversary. The dark mage had not moved since he had arrived; his gaze was enough even to freeze the window. His right hand lay curved around the upper part of the staff, while his left hand went in a reverse-L shape and gripped the middle part. He looked like he was leaning on it, as if he had a bad leg, but no pain flickered in those dark eyes. The man’s lips twisted into what Eltanin took for a smile. “You’d kill the one that saved you?” he asked in a too-calm voice. Eltanin hesitated – the man had saved him in a way, but he had killed Euriphides. “I’d kill a murderer,” the former sultan snarled, hands clenching. One moment, he was taking a swipe at the bony man’s jaw, and the next he was on the floor, coughing up blood. ''There’s no way he’s that fast, ''Eltanin thought, gasping for breath. “Manners. I thought they taught young lordlings manners.” The dark mage sniffed in apprehension and then took a seat in the cushioned chair, laying the staff down next to him. It was as if he were challenging Eltanin to try and kill him. “Wh-why are you h-h-here?” Eltanin asked, pushing himself off the floor. His gaze flickered to the crossbow on the floor but he decided not to risk it with this man. He was much too dangerous. “Khaliq Jabbar is dead. Hallowrein will soon conquer the desert – or, the Asgarnian part, I should say.” The dark mage’s grin twisted, deep shadows forming under his eyes. “Too easy, you might say, though I believe Jabbar’s son and the Archon will give a bit of-” “The Archon isn’t dead?” Eltanin interjected. The dark mage sat silent for a moment, perhaps cursing himself for saying too much, but he nodded – albeit a little stiffly. “Hermine kept him as her pet. He was soon rescued from the remainder of his troops.” Eltanin almost sighed in relief. To hear that the Archon wasn’t dead was great news. The only bad part was to explain how the Godsword went missing… On that thought, his hand darted to his pocket, making sure that the hilt of said sword was still there. Whoever wanted the Godsword had almost gotten that atop Pharoah Shai-nefer’s temple. Only Eltanin’s quick thinking had managed to stop whoever’s – or whatever’s – plans from succeeding. That meant, though, that Eltanin was a prime target now. But for who? “You were never fit to rule a nation, Eltanin.” Eltanin’s attention drifted back to the mage sitting in his chair. He bit his lip and inched towards the crossbow, but he froze as if he were suddenly held by an unseen force. He made a futile attempt to struggle, which brought an amused chuckle from the other man. “How my blood was hid from me, I do not know. Perhaps this was Ellaen’s doing, hiding you from me, though a part of me still thinks of her as someone who didn’t keep secrets.” It made no sense to Eltanin, but he thought it wise to keep his mouth shut. Questions bobbed in his mind: Who was Ellaen? What did he mean by ‘his blood’? The dark mage continued, lifting himself out of the chair. “I was wrong to leave so suddenly. If I hadn’t, your mother might be alive and all of this,” the dark mage gestured around the room, a somber expression on his face, “would not have happened. I cannot say I’m sorry, though.” Eltanin’s eyes had widened at the part where his mother had been mentioned. He opened his mouth to reply but no sound came out. If he had said ‘your mother’, that meant… “NO!” Eltanin screamed, desperately trying to pull away from whatever magic held him. The dark mage examined him with pity in his eyes, the only other expression Eltanin had seen out of him besides amusement and cold serenity. Eltanin continued to fight, growing more desperate by the second. No, this man couldn’t be his… He had killed Euriphides! “You bastard,” Eltanin managed when he could finally get something out. In a short flicker of a second, the dark mage had crossed the carpet and seized Eltanin’s throat. “Listen. ''Listen, ''boy, and listen well. If you think I lie, then so be it. But you have ''my ''blood flowing through your veins, and whether you like it or not, one day you’ll have to come to terms with that.” His grip tightened, but the light in the dark mage’s eyes said he didn’t want to do this. Eltanin stopped struggling, listening for the first time as exhaustion took over this man’s voice. “There are some who will kill you if you let your guard down for a minute. You have to think two steps ahead, as if you are playing chess, or a game of runestones. You’ve done an impressive job so far, I must admit, but if you get overconfident they’ll eventually get you. Understand?” Eltanin did understand. He hated the man, but he spoke sense. He blinked his eyes once to show his understand, and the dark mage nodded. He reached into the folds of his robes and produced an object that Eltanin almost gaped at. Surely that wasn’t…? The mage set the object down on the table, next to the box of teletabs. He traced something on it with a finger before pulling back, shivering. The dark mage looked up at Eltanin. “Don’t make me have to save your life again, boy” was all he said before disappearing. The flows of air magic disappeared with him. Eltanin lay silent for long moments, and his gaze finally rested on the object the dark mage, Thuban Daerkesun, had placed there. He traced a finger along it, just as his father had done. “Your blood,” Eltanin murmured, a faraway expression coming into eyes. He looked out the window, where snow continued to pelt the glass. And the only thing Eltanin could compare what he was thinking with was cleaning up the spill from the wine pitcher. His smile did not reach his eyes as he continued to look out at the courtyard. Overhead, a lone raven cawed.